Sad Libs, #2: I wish I’d gone (noun, mode of transport, not named after a dog of any kind, preferably something with heated seats and not quite so many inebriated evangelists aboard)

Generating fun fill-in-the-blanks times,
tailored to the specific mind-numbing scenarios in which friends find themselves trying desperately to pass the time.

I am pretty sure these seats are made of (noun, substance scratchier than sandpaper, less yielding than rock, yet possessed of an otherworldly capacity for both absorbing and transferring not only all manner of fluids and germs, but also the quiet devastation of true despair).

How long has it been since we got on this (noun, motorized and bewheeled metal box full of all manner of infectious forms of fluids, germs, and the quiet devastation of true despair, populated by all of the assorted whack-a-do’s and malcontents who are responsible for the unseen backside of life’s rich tapestry being moldily stuck to the castle wall of existence while slowly destroying the scenes of great battles and triumphs of the human spirit on its front with greenish-black blossoms of ick).

Two hours? No (adjective, aggressively profane, implies outrage, bewilderment, and despair…though the latter may simply be emanating from the upholstery) way has it only been two hours. It has been at least a (noun, made-up word for a very, very, very large number) years.

If I smother the gentleman in the seat in front of me who keeps (verb, present tense, whatever is the most insignificant-yet rage-inducing action you can imagine) with the sweatshirt I have been trying to use simultaneously as a pillow and a blanket, I am pretty sure I could claim (noun, whatever you think is most in keeping with what the zeitgeist presently designates as a justifiable defense for a lethal sweatshirt-smothering). I would never serve time.

If I could produce even a ten-second cellphone video clip of his (aforementioned rage-inducing verb-ing), the jury would not only find me “not guilty,” they would weep, with pity for me and the plight I suffered, and with admiration for my superhuman moral fortitude in peacefully enduring it for as unbelievably long as I did.

Then they would stand up, and they would slow-clap for me, like the crescendo of a TV-movie about teens and the troubles teens face.

Then they would throw me a parade.

Then, after the parade, they would throw me a sex party.

Because parades are not that fun, usually.

They could get (proper noun, name, don’t write it down, I don’t need to know your inner erotic fantasy life that well. Or at all. I can already tell it is weird, you weirdo. Everyone can tell. You aren’t paranoid. You are just weird. Freaky-deaky weird, and none of us are cool with it. Stop looking at me with your weird eyes. It better not be me. Oh god it is me!) to be the Grand Marshal of BOTH events.

That would totally work, especially when you consider how…oh, man! The WiFi is out! And I was just about to Google some stuff to add to my (undisclosed erotic fantasy proper noun’s name) Pinterest page. This whole trip can suck my (balls)!







© Lisa Hurley